


Dyschronometria

by AZaz09



Series: Interplay [2]
Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Bottom Elim Garak, Canon-Typical Violence, Isolation, Light Bondage, M/M, Restraints, Section 31 (Star Trek), Sub Elim Garak
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:13:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21882070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AZaz09/pseuds/AZaz09
Summary: Julian’s experiences at the Dominion Internment camp, and the fallout. This is the second chapter, after Fever.
Relationships: Julian Bashir/Elim Garak
Series: Interplay [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1576318
Comments: 23
Kudos: 55





	1. Chapter 1

Time has stopped. It had been sputtering for awhile, but now it has stopped altogether. In the continual darkness of solitary confinement I loose track of myself; I’ve forgotten what my hands look like. I hold them as close as I can to my face but the darkness is complete. My brain helpfully tries to fill in the in the missing information with snowy static and sparkles. (Occasionally hallucinations). Without the patterned structure of time to keep me tethered to the present, I float around, reliving birthdays and biology exams, successful surgeries and lost patients...and Garak. 

I hadn’t meant to kiss him in the holosuite. I wanted to, but I hadn’t meant to. I replay it over and over. I had plan, a schedule, and that kiss was WAY ahead of schedule. Plans are so tidy, and real life gets so messy. I ran that ridiculous spy program nearly every day for a week, trying to lure Garak in, to “catch” me with one of the overly sexualized characters. I had just wanted to plant an image in his mind, a seed. How could I know the crew’s transporter patterns would become entangled in my program, or that Garak would loose patience and call for the exit. 

I also hadn’t meant to shoot him. That was certainly not part of the plan. I had to stop him and I couldn’t think of any other way. I aimed for a cluster of nerves that runs along the Cardassian neck ridge. It is excessively difficult to find any information on Cardassian biology, but I have been somewhat focused on that task. At least since the day he approached me in the replimat. I knew the shot would not cause too much damage, and would not bleed badly, but would hurt far too much to ignore, even for Garak. I expected anger, maybe cold withdrawal, from him, but instead there was... something else. His pupils dilated; his breathing grew shallow. He stared at me with such a look of raw emotion, when I touched the injured ridge, that I became a little bit frightened. Only a little. 

He was nearly silent for the rest of the program, just looking at me. Had I stumbled on a Cardassian pain response, that was not in any of the medical texts I managed to find, or was this a Garak specific response? When the program finally ended, I was drunk on the excitement of saving them. I was swimming in serotonin and dopamine. I leaned too close to him. He didn’t pull away. I combed my fingers into his hair, and pulled him into a kiss. It happened so fast. No overthinking, agonizing or planning, only cool grey skin and silky smooth scales. He smelled faintly of the scale oil Cardassians are fond of. His hands rested on my shoulders, and I could feel them shaking slightly. I pulled him closer and ran my tongue along his open lips. He was unpracticed, but then Cardassians don’t show affection this way, the entire thing was probably completely foreign to him. 

I wanted to stay there, draped over Garak with my tongue sliding against his, but Sisco and the stations operations crew would arrive in only a few more seconds. I pulled away. Oh god, he was beautiful. His scales and ridges flush and darken when he is aroused, they were nearly black at the edges. His usually impeccable hair was out of place. His blue eyes were nearly obscured by his black pupils. “My quarters in one hour? You did promise me a thank you dinner, after all.” I had tried to sound casual, confident. 

Debriefing took too long. There were reports to file and interviews to hold. I was distracted by the lingering taste of Garak on my tongue. When I was dismissed I nearly ran down the corridor to my quarters. I had thirteen minutes. I lit candles, and took out the bottle of kanar I had purchased from a trader three months prior. It was a difficult vintage to find, but it was mentioned in one of the book Garak gave me, and I remembered the faraway look on his face when he described it. I removed my jacket and undid a button, then two, then three, then back to two. I had no idea exactly where this would lead, I was off script now. Would he show up? There was a pretty decent chance I had completely misread the entire situation. It’s kind of my thing. Garak became aroused when I inadvertently injured him and allowed me to kiss him OR Garak went into shock when I shot him and then I molested him. Shit. 

The computer chimed to indicate someone is at the door. Shit. 

I have a eidetic memory, and yet, the early part of the evening is a blur. I kissed him at the door, we drank, we talked. I was euphoric. Garak was there, in my quarters, on my sofa, drinking my kanar. I wanted to keep up the momentum of our kiss but he seemed to be growing more and more restrained as the evening wore on. I needed to make a move while there was still an opportunity. I needed to make a gesture that was clear. Something that would push his arousal to the front. I brought up the topic of some human sexual practices, especially the bondage I suspected he was interested in. His response was lukewarm at best. I was getting nervous. I did what I always do when I am nervous, I prattled on and on. He was getting annoyed. I don’t blame him, I was annoying myself. I fell back on what had been working. I kissed him. Hard. I grabbed his hair and pulled the way I like my hair pulled. That kiss was the beginning. 

* * *

They are bringing food to the solitary cells. The Dominion has a bit of a slapdash philosophy of prisoner care. I don’t think they have brought food for three or four days. Maybe. I’m not sure. Time has been misbehaving. I eat in the dark. It’s for the best. The little slice of light that fell across the floor when they handed me the bowl stung my eyes. The cool fresh air that found its way in was welcome, though. That’s a bad sign. If the fetid prison camp air smells sweet I might be getting a bit...ripe. I crawl to the piece of sack that works as my blanket. 

I wonder if I will ever see any of them again. I would like a chance to apologize to Jadzia. She became one of my closest friends but I never let her in. I kept her at arms length, joking and half serious flirting instead of being open. I have always been like that. There is a mask and behind it there is only another mask. I am made up of a series of fictions. At least Garak had something real under his mask. That is what made friendship with the chief so easy. He never wanted to see the real me. I sing one of O’brians drinking songs and the echoing sound makes me feel less alone. 

I am having a hard time discerning dreams from memories. I don’t know when I am awake. I decided to begin a simple fitness program to fight muscle atrophy but I am too dehydrated; too hungry. I lay on my back and drift. The memories are preferable to the present. My memories of Garak are censored. The way he would melt into my bed after sex, dozing contentedly. Or the way his sky colored eyes would sparkle when I successfully interpreted a difficult passage from The Never Ending Sacrifice. I focus on these. Not our last evening. That terrible day drifts into my mind and I push it away. It sneaks back in. Invades my dreams. (Are these dreams?)

I was angry with him. So angry. How dare he judge me, for lying, of all things. I had always thought if anyone would accept my augmentations it would be Garak. When I told him, things I had never spoken of to anyone outside of my parents and people at the Adigeon Prime hospital, I thought he would pull me close. Tell me he understands. Forgive me for keeping secrets. Instead he threatened me with a phasor. I had paced my bedroom all that night, arguing with no one. I took everything he had ever touched and threw it into the recycler. My sheets, blankets, the china cups I occasionally used to make him tea. Even the tuxedo he had put together for me. I sat in my nearly empty apartment and cried, while still watching my padd for any sign of a message from him. 

Then I blamed Claire. She crashed into the little world I had wrapped around myself and brought the destruction she always brings. Claire is...inaccessible. It isn’t very satisfying to be angry with her. At the docking ring she had said she knew I was on the station but didn't intend to see me. She apologized for contacting me. She said she was respecting my request to be left alone. Then she said she had left something of mine on the lower level in the data center, and thought I should know. I was honestly so confused, I did’t come close to guessing what she meant. When I saw Garak there, I thought he might be dead. It was terrifying. There was so much blood, he had been bleeding out for hours. If he had died, I think I would have left the station to find her, to find them and, I don't know, exact revenge? Get myself killed? Claire wasn’t the reason Garak left me, though, that was all me. 

* * *

I wonder if Tain is still alive. I have hope I will get out of this prison camp if Tain survives, if he is able to build his transponder, if I am not still in solitary at the time of their escape, if he decides to honor his promise to bring me along. Martok would force him to bring me. I wonder if Martok is still alive. Tain is trying to contact some the agents that worked under him. If everything works perfectly, would I even be allowed to return to Deep Space 9. After all this, would I end up in some Cardassian prison? That’s actually kind of funny. My chance of ever returning home is so close to zero. 2% maybe? There are too many variables.

There are footsteps in the hallway. Time is beginning to move again. The footsteps are not the dragging thumps of the regular guards. These are clipped and even. I pull myself into a sitting position and wait for whatever is about to happen. When the door opens, I am pulled out. 

I am being returned to the general population. The light blinds me and I can hardly stand on my own. They have to nearly drag me through the halls and to the cells. When we get to the door I take a moment to brush what dirt I can off my uniform and stand up straight. Tain and Martok don’t appreciate weakness or filth, I’m the embodiment of both. The guards grow impatient and push me through the door. 


	2. Chapter 2

Garak is here. My brain runs through all the reasons why Garak might be here. It comes up with very little. I am leaning towards hallucination. I am disoriented from my time in solitary. The vitamin deficiencies and dehydration of the last month are catching up with me, I am exhausted. I stand using the doorway to steady myself. 

He is striking, all in black, neckline cut wide to show off his... No... Focus. why is Garak sitting on one of the bunks looking at me? A Founder? One of Odo’s brothers playing the part of Elim Garak? Every scale and ridge is exact. I know these ridges. He is the same, and yet different. A new scar, almost invisible, just near his ear. Another tiny wrinkle at his eyes. His hair has grown. As if his life has been continuing, while I have been in purgatory. I have not had a clear look at him in a year. Just glances, illicit and discrete, in Quark’s or the promenade. I have been doing my best to give him space. He is trapped on Deep Space 9, I don’t want it to make it feel like more of a prison to him, than it already does. 

He silently glances back to Tain, looking for an explanation. Ohh, I suddenly understand, Enabran Tain’s Obsidian Order agent, is Garak. He turns back to stare at me, wide eyed. He did not expect me to be here. I guess Tain’s message didn’t have much room for pleasantries. It is strange that we have avoided each other, living on the same space station; then run into each other here, all the way in the Gamma Quadrant. Apparently he has brought Worf along. It seems they were ambushed and captured almost immediately. Tain’s unlikely plan has both worked and failed spectacularly. The absurdity of the situation is too much. I would laugh if I wasn’t so tired. 

After some superficial introductions, and a brief update on the situation at Deep Space 9 (and the useless theater of a blood test), I discover I have been replaced by a changeling. I wonder if he is having better luck at pretending to be Doctor Julian Bashir than I did. Worf claims nobody suspects anything. At least he does not seem to be causing mass death, unlike Martok’s doppelgänger. My first thought, is my research, all the results are contaminated now. I had presumed I was officially dead or missing; my position as the station’s CMO was filled by a shiny new doctor; my research was handed off to a team of qualified scientists. I had believed those people, who I had lived and worked with for the last two years, had mourned me in some way. I imagined them gathered somewhere together reminiscing, and maybe offering each other hopeful platitudes. I guess not. 

I try to make myself useful tending to Tain and Martok, then I nap on one of the unused cots. Tain is worse than before. I’m not sure how he survived so long without proper treatment. If I had some kind of medical equipment, I could do something. Instead it is fractions of a dose of outdated medications. He is alive through willfulness and outrage at being captured. I lay in the cot and listen to him breathe. His lungs rattle with each breath. I link my chance of escape with his life. If he dies my precious 2% will fall. He is a terrible thing. He plays with his targets, pulling information from them and using it like a precise weapon. When one of the earlier prisoners of barracks six died from injuries, inflicted by bored guards, Tain had celebrated outliving the younger, healthier man. He had laughed joyfully. Despite his vile nature he is incredibly clever. I have never seen anything like it. Tain’s focus is a force of nature, even now at the end of his life. I can’t imagine him in his prime. I understand better why Garak had been so suspicious and guarded. 

Garak has not spoken to me. He watches me, but he hasn’t said a word. The rest of the prisoners are out in the central area. It is just Tain, Garak, and me (and the ever present Breen). I need to collect some water for the barracks. Martok, and now probably Worf, will be wounded when they return. I will need water to wash their injuries and avoid infection. Tain will benefit from something to drink too. I sit up and Garak is there, standing at the foot of the cot. I didn’t hear him move. “Doctor, I thought we could talk for a moment” He is speaking quietly with his eyes trained on Tain, watching for any sign of wakefulness. I nod mutely and we walk together out the door. 

I can see he is trying to begin, but instead we walk in silence to the water supply. I bring us to one of the huge reinforced walls and sit on the ground in its shadow. Garak sits next to me. I speak before he has a chance. “I’m sorry” I pick at the torn hem of my sleeve, avoiding eye contact. “I’m sorry for the way I behaved.” He shakes his head and offers a kind smile. “Julian, I handled the entire thing terribly. You were never under any obligation to share confidential information with me.” 

I was though. Not the truth about my enhancements, or even the truth about how I knew where to find him, but some kind of truth. I hid everything. I showed him a version of Julian Bashir that was distant and in control. I never let him see how hopeless I felt when I lost a patient. I cried alone in my office, the splashed water on my face to show up at his quarters like nothing happened. I never let him see how afraid I was, of not being good enough. I never let him see how much I cared about him. I was never vulnerable in front of him. All of his lies contained some truth. The facts might have been concocted, but the emotion under it was all authentic. He had shared himself with me as fully as he was capable. 

“I’ve missed our lunches” He is offering an olive branch. I accept it with gratitude. “Me too, we never had a chance to discuss The Epistle fo Forgiveness.” I have so much I want to say, but I don’t know how to do it. I want to correct my mistakes. I want to open up to him, but I’m still afraid when he looks inside, he will see how empty I am. The ghost of a child masquerading as a man. We sit for a moment longer, then walk back to barracks with the bucket of water. 

Tain is dying. Tain has been dying for awhile, but I don’t expect he will last the night, maybe not the hour. I have had this thought dozens of times while in this prison. He surprises me every time; he was holding out for something. Refusing to die. Even Death finds Tain a formidable foe. This time is different. He seems resigned. Garak is speaking with him in hushed tones. His voice takes on a softly desperate sound. Garak calls him father, as soon as he says it, I know it’s true. It becomes a truth I have always known. Every memory of him becomes colored by the knowledge that he is Enabran Tain’s son. When Garak pulls the cover over his dead father’s face, he is like steel. I believe my chance of escape was not linked to Tain’s survival after all. Garak is every bit as formidable. 

There is a plan. We will alter the makeshift transponder to call the runabout, and beam ourselves to the ship. It’s a good plan. Garak has been working, hidden in a crawl space in the wall for over 24 hours. His claustrophobia has become acute. He shakes and holds his eyes closed. He stops only for the occasional rest break then continues for hours on end. I am powerless to anything more than try to talk him through the episodes. I am so thankful he is here, not just to enable us to send the signal. Having him here, resting in the cot next to mine has made me feel there is some hope, some reason to continue. I am extraordinarily selfish. 

* * *

I am between breaths. My final exhale was used to warn Garak that we had been discovered. The Jem’hadar I had killed, was at my feet. There was blood on my hands. That idiom is ridiculous. As a doctor I often had blood on my hands. In my mind that image is intrinsically linked to healing. Now as I stand above a dead man with his sticky dark blood collecting in the creases of my fingers, it takes on a new meaning. 

Alone in his dark labyrinth, Garak completes the alteration. I felt the nauseous lurch of a transporter beam, my 2% chance grows steadily. 20%, 43%, 92%. I can see the station in the distance. I have not yet taken a breath. I try to follow what is happing with the Defiant, on the com, but the messages are confusing, frantic. At some point I hear an ensign say “Bashir has a bomb” it gives me a sense of vertigo. An uncertain feeling. They are talking about the changeling, I know that, but still... My breathlessness stretches on and on. 

* * *

I am a stranger on the station. Everything is wrong. The uniforms are wrong. My quarters are wrong. The medical bay is wrong. For a moment I have the hysterical thought, that I am actually the changeling, and the real Julian Bashir died in the explosion. Sisco debriefs me and sends me to my quarters to rest, but I can’t bring myself to enter them. I stand at the open door and my heart pounds. Nothing is where I left it. These are not my quarters anymore. Why can’t I breathe? I head toward Quark’s instead.

Garak is on the promenade arm and arm with Dukat’s daughter. Ziyal is clinging to him. She is lovely, young and passionate. Her hair is pulled into an elaborate Cardassian hairstyle. Garak’s arms are gently around her, in an embrace that is so sweet and caring, that he looks like a different person. This is the man Elim would be, if he had not grown up in that house, with that father. I would have audibly gasped if I could breathe. Instead I turn back and head to not-my-quarters. I have no right to be jealous, but acid fills my mouth anyway. I lay in the dark, on the floor, in the middle of not-my-bedroom, carefully avoiding any of the changeling’s belongings. I am in solitary again, jumping around in time. I finally take my next breath. 


	3. Chapter 3

I am to be rewarded for my work on Deep Space 9. A long term medical hologram is being modeled after me. It is a huge honor. The creator of this modern medical marvel, Dr. Lewis Zimmerman, is here to interview me personally. I know it is a great honor, because he has told me so, repeatedly. It is a distraction, and I appreciate it for that reason, if nothing else. I can spend a few days away from the medical bay, and all the damage that was caused by the changeling. Every bit of research must be discarded and began anew. All the records must be scoured for discrepancies, and possible sabotage. The nurses reference events that took place during my incarceration, as though I was here. “But doctor, you changed my schedule... you moved those to the other storage room... They treat me as though I have developed dementia, instead of survived being kidnapped, replaced, and nearly killed. 

Dr. Zimmerman is pompous. I dislike him immensely. He is a warped mirror, reflecting all the unpalatable traits people observe in me. Still, it is an honor. I sit in the suite he has commandeered to be his workroom, while he tinkers and reworks the newest artificial Doctor Julian Bashir. My life has become overpopulated with them. Is it a metaphor for something? 

* * *

I am meeting Garak for lunch today. It will be our first lunch together since we agreed to resume them, in the shadows of the Dominion internment camp. I am going to be supportive. I am going to be his friend. I have been given another chance to have a place in his life, and I’m not going to squander it. I want him to be happy, as much as, I want him to be mine. God, the look on his face as he was holding her. He was transformed. “I am going to be supportive”, I repeat it to myself like a mantra. Jealousy is pushed to the edges. I can ignore it.

He is waiting at the replimat for me, at our usual table. His blue eyes dart across the promenade occasionally, surveying the throng of starfleet and Bajoran residents. It feels good to sit with him again. His smile is wary, uncertain of our place together. I keep our topics light. We avoid accidental touches at the small table. Our feet are pulled under our chairs, and our hands do not casually stray to each other’s plates, as they did before. 

There was an ancient Syrian poet we had intended to discuss, at our next lunch, Just over a year ago. Risālat al-Ghufrān is a kind of flowery, divine comedy. Hidden in the religious prose is a dark wit, and heretical satire. I claim to see only the most wholesome and uncorrupted meaning in the passages. He takes the bait, and we step back into the friendly debate, as though no time had passed at all. He pokes holes in all of my arguments. He leads me, in small steps, to find fault in my own viewpoint. He grins at me. It is a sharp sort of smile. My heart lurches, I want to reach my hand out to touch his fingers. then I remember how he looked with Ziyal, he was so serene, Elim Garak in love. I curl my fingers back and catch them in the wrist of my uniform jacket. 

In the evening, after hours of reviewing files and completing personality questionnaires, I return to “my” quarters. I have developed a sort of routine. It’s amazing what humans can become acclimated to, what can become normal. I have not touched anything in these rooms. I replicated myself a blanket (from the replicator in O’brians quarters), which is now spread out on the floor of the bedroom. There is a pile of freshly obtained uniforms next to it. I have not been on the chairs, or in the bed, or opened the closet. I have not touched the replicator or any of the padds. I shower in the officer’s gym. 

I call for the computer to shut the lights off and darken the porthole. In the complete darkness, I feel safe again. The thin blanket is the floor of my cell in the Dominion camp. I know I have to get passed this. Everyone else has returned, triumphant, to the station. General Martok is a hero to his people. Worf walks arm in arm with Judzia, both of them sneaking admiring glances. Even Garak appears to be unusually happy to be back at the station. I am the only one still trapped there. My friends and peers have continued on with their lives. They want to talk to me about birthday celebrations, and station gossip. I want to scream at them. Or just scream. I feel invisible. I lay on the blanket, and let myself cry until I fall asleep. I don’t even know why I am crying anymore. 

* * *

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

My parents are here. This is the exact opposite of what I need. I am in no frame of mind to handle this. They are characters of themselves. My father, a notorious blowhard, dials it up to ten in Commander Sisco’s office. My mother defers to him, in everything. I have to get them out of Sisco’s office. I drag them to guest quarters, on the opposite side of the station from “mine”.

They are in fine form. My father purposely misunderstands me, and aggrandizes his place in my life, and in the universe. They occupy a tiny slice of my reality. They don’t understand what my existence has been, for the past 20 years. They have a tenuous connection to me, by our shared DNA. Not much anymore, though. A test would not show them to be my parents. In fact, I have done several examinations of my well tailored DNA. They would be distant relatives at best, second cousins perhaps. I don’t feel any sort of connection to them, but they know too much about me, and it's best to just humor them until they leave. 

Richard and Amsha believe, they brought me to Adigeon Prime because they loved me, and wanted what is best for me. The truth is they were embarrassed. I was proof of my father’s unexceptional nature. Even if they’d had another child, who was perfect in every way, I would have been a dark cloud over their family. They brought me there to destroy a humiliating secret before anyone else noticed.

They were easily deceived by the doctors and agents at that hospital. They paid a small fortune to have me “fixed”, but I was used as a test subject for hundreds of additional alterations. Most of the changes to my genetic makeup did not really do anything. There were a series of alterations to make me compatible with the technology they were using. They tested postnatal resequencing, by simply changing random traits each year, then documenting how age affected the outcome. The nameless hospital did not exist to refurbish the children of disappointed, wealthy parents. They were working to create superior soldiers and agents, outside the strict guidelines of the Federation. 

There were others there. Some were like me, children quietly used to test procedures, while their oblivious parents waited in nearby hotels. The rest had been created in the hospital. They were often kept in stasis between tests and procedures, but occasionally, they would be awake while I was there for “summer camp”. There was so much about that place my parents did not understand. Another layer of fiction. 

* * *

O’Brian knows. He is sitting on the changeling-doctor’s sofa, explaining how he overheard my parents talking. This is bad. He wants me to deny everything. He would believe me if I did. He is as much as telling me he is willing to overlook this, if I will just dismiss it as a misunderstanding, maybe some sort of family joke. This is really bad. 

I am so tired. Everything is slipping through my fingers. I can’t keep propping up this fundamentally broken life. There is no way to save my commission. I am going to be thrown out of Starfleet. My medical license will be revoked. I will be court-martialed. My father would break under the slightest pressure. My mother would follow him soon after. I tell O’Brian the truth. I hate what this bit of honesty is going to bring, but it feels cathartic to finally say it out loud. He still wants to believe it is some kind of misunderstanding. 

My initial shock becomes purpose. I am going to resign my commission. The only way to keep any kind of self determination is to act first. I have to stay out of prison. Not only because of the taste of imprisonment I had, at the hands of the Dominion, although that is certainly part of it. In a Federation facility, I would be at the mercy of Section 31. I knew this day might come, since the day I decided to enter Starfleet Academy; now I wish I had made more solid arrangements. I should have acquired more latinum and more contacts. I have a set of artificial identification documents. They are good quality, and I have been updating them occasionally for years. I have a rather ingenious holo-emitter that should allow me to leave the station, unrecognized, aboard a transport vessel. With some deeper scans they will be able to tell it is artificial, but I only need a head start. 

There is nothing, in these quarters, I want to take with me. Everything is tainted by the changeling. I should collect some civilian clothing before I go. It would be both disrespectful and indiscreet if I left wearing my uniform. I will leave the station directly after officially resigning. Before I go I have to see Garak. Elim. Now that I may never see him again, I give my feelings for him free reign. I miss him so much. If there is one thing I regret, it’s being so careless with him. 

* * *

He is not in his quarters. That is not surprising, it’s the middle of a work day for him. His shop is dark and the closed sign is turned on. I try messaging but there is no reply. I go back to not-my-quarters-and-never-will-be-again, to wait for a response from him. Doctor Zimmerman’s report on my augmented status will take a few hours to reach the appropriate officials, and a few more to get a directive back to the station. I probably have three more hours to make my escape. I will give Garak two hours to respond before I give up; maybe two and a half. I make several inquiries to the computer about his location, but he has been tinkering with the system, and it gives nonsense answers. It’s inconvenient, but I smile anyway. 

I am not sure what I am going to say to him. I want him to know how I feel. I want to give him some real part of me, before I leave him to his new life with Ziyal. I want to tell him he has changed me. I am a different man for having known him. I see the ambiguity of the universe, things are no longer just black and white. He would be pleased with my progress. I want him to know I loved him. Love him. I don’t know the words that will show him that. I am speechless in the face of my feelings for him. Maybe I just want to see him one last time, press my palms to his. 

There is one hour left. An hour and a half if I push my luck. From my little island, in the middle of not-my-bedroom, I notice something shine under not-my-bed. I crawl to it and reach my hand under to pull it out. It’s the little metal ball I had used as a kind of safe word for Garak. I meant to throw it in the recycler, but I couldn’t find it at the time. It tinkles softly as I move my hand. It makes me flush a little to see it again. It had been a last minute addition to my bedside drawer. The ball was from a set used to build finger dexterity and stress reduction. I lost one of them during transport to the station and the other had sat, lonely, in the decorative storage box. None of that first day had been especially well planned. 

He used to grip it when things got particularly intense for him. I liked the way it tinkled when his hands shook. I had made a study of bringing him pleasure. I was so much more sure of myself in that department. I never knew the right thing to say, but I could observe biological changes. I am well versed in observing biological phenomena. I had cataloged the response from each ridge and scale, ranging from the lightest touches to the harshest blows. He had come alive under my hands. The image of him, stretched out on my bed, his hands tied, his ajan dripping wet, each muscle tense, was electrifying. I pulled him, as carefully as I knew how, into exploring his sexuality. The further I pushed him, the more he relaxed into our scenes. My tightly laced Cardassian was passionate, sensual...vulgar. 

There’s thirty minutes left. The computer notifies me I have a visitor. It could be my parents, it could be Sisco. Maybe my estimate was off, and security is here to lead me to a cell. Before I am able to check the identity of my caller, the door slides open and Garak enters. “You sounded worried” he stands close, “I came as soon as I received your message”. I am going to miss him. 


	4. Chapter 4

Garak smells good. Not being a human, he does not sweat. There is no musky mammal scent to him. Instead he smells slightly of vanilla, a dusty, sort of sandy, vanilla. He also smells faintly like the grooming oil he prefers. Humans have a notoriously bad sense off smell, mine is only a bit better than most, but I can smell him from where he is standing. It is lovely. 

I am not sure how to tell him what I need to say. I begin by holding my palms out to him, in the Cardassian greeting we often shared. He responds immediately, pressing his cool hands against mine, but his face grows even more concerned. “Julian, what is it?” “I have to leave the station, I’ve been found out” He knows immediately what I am referring to. He lets out a silent “oh” and pulls me into an embrace.

I did not expect that. He is strong; his arms feel sturdy and protective. I lay my head on his shoulder and push my face into his hair. The embrace goes on, past the short three seconds of a friendly greeting, past the five seconds allowed during a heart felt goodbye, past the ten seconds of a loved one offering support. He just holds me, with no sign of letting me go. I want to freeze this moment in my mind, something to come back to. He strokes my hair softly and I can’t hold back. I begin to cry, the way I have been every night since I got back from the Gamma Quadrant. Deep sobs that come from nowhere. I try to pull away and wipe my face, bring myself back under control but he just holds me tighter. 

“I’m sorry” I whisper into his hair. “That’s quite alright my dear” He releases me and takes a step back.”What are you going to do?” “I have some ideas, I have to resign from Starfleet, and then get off the station. One thing at a time.” “Are you certain you have to leave?” “Yes” I check the time, “in twenty minutes”. “Do you need anything, is there anything I can do?” No, I just wanted to see you before I go. I need to...thank you...for everything you have done for me. And apologize again...” I am being ridiculously sentimental. I’m certain Elim hates it. He gives me an indulgent look. “You are forgiven, for whatever it is you think you have done, I forgive you.” I want to break down again, bury my face in his shoulder and cry, I pinch the little slip of skin between my thumb and finger to keep myself under control. 

“I lied to you.” “Yes, and you did a shockingly good job of it.” “I lied to you about everything.” I try to make him understand the depth of my fraudulence. Worry starts to bleed back into his expression. “I never told you I loved you” I want him to hear it now, one year too late. He smiles broadly, relief filling his eyes. “Of course you did Julian. Everything you did, showed me your feelings. You are remarkably thoughtful.” Was I thoughtful? I had tried to impress him, I had tried to make him like me, was that enough? Is love just trying to manipulate someone else into staying? 

I want to stay longer. There is a fragile harmony between us right now. With just another hour, I think we could create some kind of understating. There is no time, though. “Garak, do you think you have anything in the shop that would fit me? I need something to wear.” His eyes twinkle at that. His lip twitches in amusement, at some private joke. “Yes, Doctor, I think I have something.” 

I follow him to his shop, and he lets me in, re-securing the door behind me. He opens a small storage locker in the private part of the shop, where he keeps his equipment. He selects a box containing several articles of clothing. He hands me a pair of brown pants made of the softest wool, so dark they are nearly black. There is also a simple moss green tunic, and a pale golden silk shirt. He pulls out several other items, folds everything carefully, and packs them into a nondescript canvas bag, the sort of bag you see by the hundreds on passenger transports. He then pulls out a padd. “It is untraceable he says as he slides it along side the clothing.” Oh, that will come in very handy. “Are you sure they will fit me?” I ask as I take the bag. “Yes, Julian, they will fit you. I am sure.” I had been looking for something simple to change into, the clothing he packed for me was extraordinary. Nothing overly ornate, I don’t think it would bring extra attention, just high quality and well made. 

I take his hands in mine and thank him again. I close my eyes and let my forehead press against his. When I pull away he is looking at me with deep affection. It reminds me of the look on his face when he was with Ziyal. At this moment I am glad he has found her. It would be so much harder to leave if he did not have her. Someone to keep him happy. 

* * *

Everything is going wrong. My estimation of when I would be at risk of arrest, did not take into consideration my father’s colossal bad judgement. Hearing that I was about to be found out, he had gone directly to Sisco’s office to plead my case. His case. Commander Sisco had contacted the admiral, who, had immediately ordered his arrest. They had just contacted security to bring me to operations. The chief warned me as I was approaching. I thanked him and promised to tell him how it worked out for me. I quickly entered one of the public toilets on the promenade and changed into the clothing Garak and packed for me. I threw my uniform and commbadge into the recycler. The tiny holo-emitter sits comfortably behind my ear, and gives me the face of a young Bajoran man, earring and everything. I head directly to the docking ring. As I walk past I notice several of the stations security officers enter Garak’s shop.

There is a transport ship leaving for Vulcan in 30 minutes. The captain is annoyed I am trying to gain passage at the last minute, but a little extra latinum calms him down. I am led to a tiny cabin with narrow bunks against one wall. Luckily I do not seem to have a bunk mate. My heart is beating too fast. It is making me light-headed. I sit at my bunk and focus on my breathing, trying to will my panic away. The ship slowly disengages from the docking clamps and pushes away from the docking ring. I count the moments until I am safe. When we go to warp I lay in the narrow bed. It is surprisingly comfortable. We are scheduled to arrive at Vulcan in just over 90 hours. I might as well try to get some rest. 

I wake with a start a few hours later. I as dreaming, there was a virus going around the station, nothing serious but, it was keeping me busy. The dream was so real. I was a doctor still. I was still me. I sit up and pull out the padd Garak packed for me. When I flip it on there is a letter waiting for me. 

Dear Julian,  
I do not fully understand the politics behind your sudden evacuation  
from the station we have both called home for too long.  
This small floating prison, of mine, will be a colder place without you.  
You can contact me through this padd whenever you need to.  
I have placed additional security on it, and programmed it to access  
a secure line to the station. I hope you use it to update me occasionally.  
Please remember, if there is anything I can do for you, just ask.  
Yours, Elim  


Besides the letter, there are several Cardassian novels we had planned to read, and several of my favorite Earth novels. When did he have time to do this? With 86 hours to go, I open the epic, Never Ending Sacrifice, and start over at the beginning. It is the same as I remember it, but that is somehow comforting now. I am tired of changes. 

Each chapter is a repeat of the chapter before it. The changes are minute, names and ages. One daughter has three children and anther only two. One son dies in war and another comes home to work the family’s fields. The personal details of each character don’t matter in the grand scheme of the book. Everyone has a place. Everyone has a duty. I read for 27 hours and finish the book in one sitting. When I am done I don’t know what I have read. I don’t know what it means to me. The story spins around in my head and becomes intertwined with itself. Did each of these generations foresee the suffering of the next? Did they want to try to improve the lives of their offspring or were they happy to watch their own hardships repeat themselves. Are we not here, to try to improve the lives of those around us, to reduce suffering? Garak, would enjoy proving me wrong. I miss him. I’ve missed him for a long time. 

When I arrive on Vulcan, I contact Claire. I knew I would do it. I tried to imagine I could restart on my own, but I know better. Section 31 will be looking for me. I am fair game now. I could evade them for awhile on my own, but eventually I would slip. I send her a long rambling message, explaining my situation and asking for any kind of help. It is two pages. She responds immediately. 

Wait there

I sit in the arrival hall of the shuttle station and wait. She arrives less than an hour later. I have no idea how she got here so fast. Was she already on Vulcan? She surveys the room for a while before walking up to me. She reaches out to touch my Bajoran face, “Neat trick, come on.” I wordlessly follow her to a small waiting ship. She sits at the helm and brings the ship out of atmosphere, following all the complicated Vulcan protocols. “Where are we going?” I ask, more out of curiosity than any objection. I have no plan, no home, anywhere would be fine. “Terod system, I have a place there.” I guess I knew that.

She turns to face me. She is younger than me now, it is incongruent. She was always older than me. I wonder how many years she was kept in stasis. When I saw her on the station, a year ago, I was so shocked to find her standing the docking ring, I didn't notice any of the details. She looks too much like she did in the hospital. She should have aged some, even if she was in stasis there, all those years. It was destroyed over fifteen years ago, she was around eighteen at that time, she should be about thirty-three. “You look good.” I say, probing for information. She laughs but offers no response. The little ship is much faster than it should be. We seem to be going nearly warp 9. 

  
The unsuspecting test subjects of Adigeon Prime all died in their late teens and early twenties. One at a time they had accidents. Nothing suspicious, only their connection to the nameless hospital. But of course that was a secret no one knew about. I was lucky. Just before my sixteenth birthday the hospital burned down. It didn’t really burn, it exploded in a blast so hot, it destroyed every brick, and every data rod. All six doctors, thirteen nurses and three overseeing agents died in that explosion. The records were all lost. The experimental augmented children (who were now teenagers) presumably perished in that fire as well, except they didn't. 

Everything seems so much simpler now. The worry and stress of my last few weeks has faded. I guess all I needed was complete failure; the loss of everything I was working for since I entered Starfleet Academy. I pull out the padd and connect to the ships comm system. I bring up the single entry in the contact list. It is all nonsense. A series of numbers in Orion. I send a message, just to try it. 

I am safe  


There is no response and I put the padd away. We fly in silence for another hour, then she lands the ship on the surface of the quiet planet. Just as I am about to exit the ship and face whatever is coming next, the padd rings.

I am pleased.  
They are looking for you  
Please be careful  
I miss you  



	5. Chapter 5

I am outside the universe. Somewhere, there is a Bajor, and a space station, and a looming war, but none of that reaches me here. Claire’s “place” is underground, hidden deep in an abandoned mine, on an abandoned mining world. She keeps erratic hours, there is no day or night here, and I lose track almost immediately. I occasionally check the day using my padd, but it feels arbitrary. Right now, it is Wednesday morning in London. 

When I was seven years old, sleeping in the special ward, of the Adigeon Prime hospital, I was woken up by a noise from the air vent. Claire slipped into my room, and sat on my bed, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. “Whatcha reading?” She asked, nodding toward the book, tucked partly under my pillow. I couldn’t read then, but I had a real paper book full of pictures. There were stars, and planets, and nebulas in brilliant color. Reds and blues and greens filled the pages. I didn’t understand the words next to each photograph, but I knew these were important. I sat for hours, pouring over each picture, trying to comprehend them. Claire sat with me and read each caption out loud. I did’t understand the words, but I enjoyed it immensely. She was never patronizing or impatient with me. She just nodded sagely, when I gave her my child’s insight into the universe. 

Just as the sky outside my room started to glow gently with the new day, she climbed back into the vent. “What’s your name?” She asked before she pulled the cover on. “Jules”, I whispered back to her. “Bye, Jules”, she waved her hand back and forth awkwardly, like she was trying out the gesture. We were friends in the way only children can be, immediately and genuinely. 

This Claire is not the same girl who climbed, excitedly, into my room every time I returned to the nameless hospital. She changed over the years. Alterations and procedures refashioned her, from one Claire to another. My last “summer camp” was when I was 14. She was there, but she was something else, now. There were whispers, that the hospital was experimenting with Borg technology, left behind years ago. I have never asked her directly. I don’t think I would know what to do with the truth. There are a lot of things I have not asked her about. 

* * *

The war is progressing faster than I expected. The Dominion’s steady invasion is documented on every news feed in the Alpha Quadrant. I am worried about Deep Space 9, it’s so close to the wormhole, it will be one of the first casualties when open combat breaks out. I want to help somehow. The trouble with running away from your problems is, your problems are still there, waiting for you. Except the ones you carry with you, of course.

Claire and I create a holographic model of the Alpha Quadrant, with each ship and base, along with details of attacks, number of soldiers stationed, and number of civilians. It’s easier to spot patterns and intentions this way. I am reminded of hours spent with O’Brian, painstakingly recreating battles and battlefields. When we are finished she stares at it for a moment and pushes her lips together. “Cardassia first, then Bajor, then all these here” she sweeps her hand from Betazoid to Trill. I watch her, wide eyed. “The Dominion has a long history of befriending, overtaking, enslaving and then eradicating. Really, the only people the Founders keep around, are the ones they make themselves.” She looks up to me and sees the look of horror on my face. “Probably?” She says to try too make her prophecy more palatable. 

“Do you really think the Dominion will win?” I ask. “Well...I mean...yes? Don’t you?” She is looking uncertain at our model. “They will use Cardassian soldiers as cannon fodder, letting the Klingons meet them loss for loss. The Federation will do everything by halves, trying to hold back and protect their core planets. By the time the Dominion heads for Earth they will control this entire area.” she runs her hand along a large swath of space around the wormhole. This is just an exercise for her. None of these planets, or these billions and billions of people hold any meaning at all. 

* * *

Sometimes you just need to ask the right question. I have been asking “what will happen”. I need to ask “how can change this”. It’s time for me to stop running.

When she gets back from wherever it is she goes for days at a time, I broach the subject of returning to the station. I have an idea of taking on the identity of a Bajoran doctor. With a little surgery, and some falsified documents, it should be quite simple. Her nose wrinkles, the way it does when she doesn’t like something. “There was some debate about you, when your augmentation came to light.” “Have you been spying on me?” I ask playfully. “I have some alerts on internal Starfleet memos. You may, or may not be one of them.” I am actually sort of touched by that. Even with all of her hollowness and apathy, there is still something left of my childhood friend. 

Apparently, the Federation’s strict policy on Augments is very heavily carried by the Representatives from Earth, retired Starfleet admirals with strict notions of acceptability. Most worlds are ambivalent at worst, toward genetic enhancement. The Vulcans in particular believe the law is irrational. A few small changes at the highest levels of leadership, should be enough to put my fate in a much more responsive Federation. 

I remember the three unfortunate Betazoid women, and how they might relate to the now completely uninhabited planet I am hiding on. “You can’t kill anyone” I say suddenly realizing her tactics would cross a line, I am not willing to cross. She shrugs absently. “They just have to retire.” Then she adds “Only two of them, thats enough. Its kind of a two birds thing anyway, if you want the Federation to win the war against the Dominion there is going to have to be a few changes.” I don’t ask what she means. I just add it to the list of things I don't ask her about. 

She has been gone for nearly a week. At first I obsess over each skirmish, and Dominion encounter reported in the news. I am going to drive myself insane like this. I need a distraction I decide to try reading another of the Cardassian novels, Garak considerately sent along. I find one of them still has the original Cardassian included in the file. I decide to work through it, translating it word by word, then checking it against the Federation Standard version. It is slow work. Piece by piece the words start to make sense. Cardassian is so layered, with meaning piled on top of meaning. The translated version can not begin to tell the story unwinding before me. The plot is simple. A crime and the punishment for that crime, but the subtext wanders a different path, bringing the reader to sympathize with the criminal, and then the judge, and then back again. There is heartache, betrayal, and deep sympathy, under all the duty to the state. 

I read passages out loud, imagining Garak is here with me, reading the story in unison. I run my hand along the soft silk shirt he packed when I left. He was right, it fits me perfectly. Even the sleeves are long enough to just cover the bones of my wrists. It is simple and elegant, nothing like I usually wear. I have gotten used to my small exquisite wardrobe. I am on the last chapter when Claire returns. 

* * *

It seems there has been a bit of an upset in the upper echelon of Federation leadership. Two high ranking Cabinet members have stepped down. Their replacements are relatively unknown politicians from small, Earth colony, planets. They are, both of them, products of interspecies relationships. The kind of reproduction that requires genetic tinkering for viability. It only takes three days for a response to my request for clemency. I am offered a pardon and reinstatement, so long as I am willing to return to Deep Space 9, and assists with the growing number of Dominion casualties. I hold the padd in shaking hands, reading and rereading the official notice. 

I am apprehensive about returning to the station. I don’t expect everyone will be happy to see me, given the circumstances of my departure. Miles will come around eventually, and Judzia will probably give me one of her compassionate smiles, and move on to station gossip. Kira believes the ends justify the means, and will probably welcome my additional abilities, I hope. Sisco though... I’m not so sure. I remember Garak’s embrace and I know I can face whatever the station brings. 

Claire is efficient when a decision is made. She has her little ship ready to go within a few hours. Her intention is to bring me to Bajor, where I will catch a shuttle to the station. I sleep for awhile during the trip, then finish the last chapter of my Cardassian novel. We travel in silence, I watch the stars bounce and slow as we leave warp and approach Bajoran space. The planet is blue and green, like Earth, with expansive deserts and, forested mountains. We are given clearance to land in Dahkur Provence, where my shuttle will be leaving in just an hour. I can’t believe I am so close. When the ships comes to a stop, in the landing dock at the station, Claire hands me a small box. “Open it later” she directs. I slip it into my canvas bag. “Thanks” is all I say. She doesn’t really need to hear more. “Be careful, Jules, war is dangerous business.” I nod and climb out of the ship. 

The shuttle will leave in less than an hour. I wait with the rest of the passengers, and all of their luggage on an open air platform. The sun is out and the air smells like green plants. It has been a very long time since I have stood in the breeze under the sun, any sun. I pull out the padd and bring up the strange Orion contact.

I am coming back  


I don’t expect a response, Garak’s paranoid level of security takes some time to deliver the message. The shuttle is full, each seat is filled, bags and children are held on laps. I am filled with tension. I can’t sit still. My feet tap against the floor, earning me an annoyed glare from the man next to me. I hold my hands together and try to take calming breaths. It’s useless. I count the minutes. 180 minutes from Bajor to Deep Space 9. 120, 80, 40, 20, 5. I have to grip my knees to keep from jumping out of my seat as soon as we dock. I enter the doors of the docking ring and one word fills my mind. Home. I am home. 

Miles is waiting for me. He pulls the bag from my shoulder and claps me hard on the back. “Took you long enough, you lazy eejit.” He is smiling, but his eyes are slightly misty. “Sisco wants to see you in his office first thing in the morning.” Oh thank God. That is one meeting I am not looking forward to. “I...uh do I have quarters?” He laughs and winks. “Sisco moved you one level down, at least you will be closer to sickbay. Don’t worry we moved your stuff. You can thank me with a drink after you get settled.” He walks me to my new quarters while telling stories of everything I missed. He hands me my bag and pats me on the arm again. “It’s good to have you back, Julian”. Home. 

Everything is packed in boxes, stacked in one corner. They can wait. It’s early, Garak will still be at his shop. I don’t want to wait to see him, I decide to visit him there. I brush the wrinkles from my clothes and run my fingers through my too-long hair. When the door slides open Garak is there. He is holding Kukalaka. “You left him behind, I hope you don't mind I took him. He was lonely without you.” 


	6. Chapter 6

Garak steps into my new quarters, and gingerly hands me my well-loved, stuffed bear. There is a new row of tidy, delicate stitches, next to my more chaotic repairs. Kukalaka is the only thing remaining from the child I was. I have kept him all these years, in part as proof Jules Bashir once existed. The first set of large awkward sutures were made when I was five, before the my parents decided to have me improved upon. His tiny black eyes have seen me in my darkest times; I have no secrets from him. “I’m sorry I left him”. I set him on the small table near the door, and hold my palms out to meet Garak’s. 

I want to kiss him. I step back, to stop myself. His clothing and hair is as perfect, and polished, as it always is, but there is a hint of darkness under his eyes. He is thinner. His beloved Cardassia is occupied and controlled by Dominion forces. His exile takes on a new kind of cruelty, being so far from his people when they are in need. I remember watching the war from Claire’s computer system, how helpless it made me feel. I remember what Claire said about Cardassia’s place in the Dominion. Cannon fodder. What state of mind drove him to make off with my childhood toy?

I don’t know the right thing to say. I never know the right thing to say. “Have you had lunch?” I ask. Everything is safe when we are sharing lunch together. “I don’t want to go out there, not just yet. Maybe we can eat here?” I add. He nods agreeably, and we head to the replicator, and the tiny table beside it. Besides loosing a bit of weight and clearly not sleeping as well as he should, Garak looks more somber. His clothing is simple, with muted colors and a utilitarian design. He looks sad. Too much of the inner Garak is showing through the facade. His mask is getting brittle. 

These quarters are a duplicate to my last ones, but they are different. Small details catch my attention. I am on a lower deck and the widows reflects a the wormhole at a slightly different angle. The carpeting is less worn near the door. I am further from the engineering, and the station’s pitch is slightly lower. The changeling never inhabited these rooms. I am somewhat pleased that my old quarters had been reassigned so quickly after I left. 

* * *

We eat a light lunch, I haven’t had anything since I left my underground hiding place, but I am too agitated to feel hungry. I take a deep breath, and ask the question I have been agonizing over. “Are you and Ziyal serious?” It’s not eloquent, but I am not eloquent, and it will have to do. He tilts his head. “Ziyal? I’m not sure what you mean.” I am going to blunder my way through this conversation. “I don’t want to... get in the way. I want to continue to be friends with you. I want...” ugh. I forge ahead. “I saw you together on the promenade and I’m happy for you, I want you to know, I’m happy for you. If thats...” “Ziyal?” He repeats. This is not going well. “Julian, do you think I am romantically involved with Dukat’s daughter?”

When he puts it that way it, does seem unlikely, but still, that embrace; and in public. I’m not sure what to think. Garak reaches across the table and takes my hand. “Ziyal is a child. I care a great deal for her, but not romantically. We have a lot on common.” He pauses and looks at our joined hands. Oh, the unwanted children of the most powerful men on Cardassia, of course they would seek each other out. A little bit of hope blooms in me. 

I want desperately to kiss him. I decide to continue being tactlessly blunt. “I would like to kiss you.” I say. I want to warn him. To give him a chance to refuse. “I have wanted that for a long time” he whispers back. “Then why did you stay away?” I ask weakly. I don’t want to ruin our reunion, with petulance, but I can’t help myself. I need to know what I did, that drove him away. “Because you did, Doctor. I did not want to burden you, especially after my behavior. I thought it was best to let you approach me, if you wished to resume our friendship.” 

The computer interrupts the epiphany before I can fully process what he is saying. “Sisco to Bashir” I take a deep breath and respond to the dreaded, but inevitable, request. “Please come to my office at your convenience.” I know the commander, and that phrase means, “immediately, if not sooner”. I glance at Garak and he looks back sympathetically. He pats the hand he is still holding, and says “I can wait here, if you would like.” “I might be awhile” I warn him. He pats my hand one last time and lets it go. “I can wait.” I head to ops, internally practicing my apology speech.

* * *

The first thing I notice is Judzia is here. She is grinning. Not the amused, Mona Lisa smirk, but the wide exuberant one, that shows off her teeth. She throws her arms around me and nearly drags me through the door. Kira is at her station, she turns and gives me a nod, then returns to her work. It is a good sign, coming from the Major. Commander Sisco is standing at his desk. I can see him through the open office door. He is watching me, I get the feeling I am being scrutinized for any sign of megalomania. Judzia lets me go and I stand up straight and enter his office.

Sisco is hard to read. I struggle, to know what he is thinking. He makes me wait, standing in his office, while he scrutinizes me, his judgments hidden behind his unmovable demeanor. I want to shrink down, and hide in his presence, a feeling I have always had, but I meet his eyes and wait for him to begin. Starfleet offered (demanded) my return to Deep Space 9, that would not have been possible without Sisco’s approval, no matter how reluctant. He will not send me away, I just have to get through this formality. 

“There is an official reinstatement tomorrow morning,” he begins “but I wanted to meet with you informally, first.” I nod, struggling to keep my eyes trained straight ahead. “I don’t appreciate deception among my staff, and I certainly do not appreciate, one of my officers, breaking Federation law.” “Yes sir.” “I understand the reason you may have wanted to keep your genetic augmentation a secret, but that is not how we do things in Starfleet, and that is not how I run my station.” “Yes sir.” I repeat. I am always in awe of the way, this man, can make me feel like a naughty schoolboy, with just a look. “From now on, I expect you to come to me with any problems you are having.” His voice takes on a softer tone. “You are an important part of my crew, and I won’t have you risking your position, like this, again. Am I making myself clear?” He sounds nearly warm by the end. He reaches his hand out and shakes mine firmly, “Welcome home, Bashir.” “Thank you, sir” I offer. I have managed to keep from staring at the floor like a first year cadet, but my voice cracks, giving me away. 

The door opens and Judzia, Miles, Kira, and several of my nurses are there waiting. I am unsure how to be me. I have been two parts, for so long, the pieces don’t quite fit together anymore. I know how to be Doctor Julian Bashir, the mild, naive, slightly helpless, young officer, but not augmented human, Doctor Bashir. They are gracious, welcoming me back with equal parts sincerity, and curious looks. Kira, in her somewhat brusque way, suggests everyone get back to work. When we make eye contact, I see she meant it as a favor. I thank her and head back to my quarters, and to Garak.

As of yet, I have not run into anyone that is more than simply curious about my enhancements. I expected to find my friends had pulled away, but instead, they seem pleased to have me back. It is hard to reconcile this with the dread of being discovered, I was raised with. Could I have had this wholeness sooner, if I had made more of an effort? I don’t think so, sometimes things have to come about in their own time. 

When the door slides open, I see him sitting exactly as I left him. He looks nervous, it’s subtle, a tiny flicker across his face. “I anticipate your meeting went well” “Yes, I believe it did.” I walk to him with purpose, moving steadily until I am standing directly in front of him. I lean in and kiss him softly, just a touch of lips, at first. 

Our first, first kiss was in the holosuite. It was a surprise to both of us, the manifestation of our desire when our emotions were high. Our second, first kiss was on the sofa, after drinks, that evening. It was passionate and chaotic, our teeth bumped, and at the end I faintly tasted blood. Our third, first kiss is practiced. We know each other’s lips. This is not a continuation of our relationship from last year. I am not the same Julian Bashir and he is not the same Elim Garak. This is something altogether new. 

I slide onto his lap, facing him, He nibbles at my lower lip and I run my hands through his hair. The chair threatens to topple under out activities, so I pull him up without breaking the kiss. We stumble back to the sofa and fall together. He is pulling at me now, touching everything he can reach. I step away, and carefully unbutton the shirt. “I don’t want to wrinkle it” I say, mocking his usual fussiness. “It is much better than those atrocious uniforms, I usually see you in.” He retorts. His hands are on me as soon as the shirt is off, I lean back and try to set it on the small coffee table. When I do he bites me on the chest. Just enough to leave a row of marks. His eyes are dark. I push him down and hold him, with one arm against his chest. He whimpers softly. I missed this Garak too. 

I run my hands along the side of his tunic, to find the hidden clasps, I learned to unfasten them with one hand, long ago. I pull his tunic and his undershirt off together, and toss them next to my shirt. He glances at the pile, in disapproval. I run my tongue along the now exposed shoulder ridge, and he forgets the shirts. I bite and lick his shoulder, up to his neck, and along the finer ridge that follows his chin. Then move back to his lips. We kiss, pressed together. I can feel his ridges against my chest. They are cool and smooth. My nerves light up each time they brush against me. 

I want to feel more of him. I stand up and pull my pants off, then his. I fold them carefully, shaking out any wrinkles. I theatrically do the same with his tunic, and undershirt. He laughs. It’s a good sound. ”Computer, set temperature to Cardassian standard, and lower the lights to 20%.” It requires an override code, and I momentarily worry mine won’t work anymore, but it does. “It is gratifying to see you have not lost all of your manners.” He is smirking at me, his blue eyes crinkle with his smile. “Oh, but I have” I say, and climb back on top of him, knees straddling his hips. I run my fingers along the ridges to his chula, the lovely little teardrop set into his chest like a jewel. Garak is a work of art. His scales are a cool grey-blue, like a stormy sky, softy iridescent. His ridges run in arabesque patterns along his body. I will never tire of seeing him, stretched out beneath me; blue eyes closed, hair in disarray, hands gripping at the fabric of the sofa. When I pinch hard at the thick ridge running along his neck he gasps and it darkens in my hands. 

I nearly pull him into the bedroom. I am dismayed to find the bed has no sheets, but there is a stack of fresh linens positioned in the center. I quickly throw a sheet over the mattress and Garak rolls his eyes. He takes the sheet from my hands, and carefully arranges it, tucking each corner with precise matching creases. When he is finished, I put my arms around him, and nuzzle the thick pattern of ridges that lead away from his ear. I softly let my lips follow the texture to his lips. “What would I do without you” I tease. “You would turn your quarters into a hovel, and wear fuchsia and red together.” His indignant expression barely contains the fondness. 

“What would you like to do now?” I ask. I take a mischievous delight in getting him to say the most vulgar things; making him admit what he wants. He hates it. I understand his preferences. He finds it difficult to let go, he is always cautious and alert. The ropes and gag allow him to accept what he wants, it takes away some of the weight of his own condemnation, quiets some of the voices, even if it is just for show. 

We don’t have any of the makeshift props we used before. My quarters are bare, with my personal belongings still mixed in boxes. “We don’t have the little ball we used before.” I warn him. “We will need to select a safe word.” “Safe word”, he repeats back to me “how novel.” “We could go with a color alert, red and green?” He shakes his head slightly, “I think I would prefer to hold something...” He seems to want to say more, but he doesn’t. I walk back to the replicator and page through the database. Most of the preprogrammed household items are made of resequenced proteins. They are slightly soft and flexible. I don't believe they would make enough noise if dropped. Anything glass would be dangerous if he gripped it too tightly. I find a holiday bell made of metal and program it in. Garak holds it for a moment, testing it in his palm. It isn’t as good as the smooth silver ball, but it will do. 

Now that my augmentations are in the open, there is no reason for me to diminish my strength. With the bell in his hand I grasp his wrist and pull his arm tightly behind his back. He pushes back instinctively. In a real fight he would win, without a doubt. His skill and experience would beat my strength. But I am very strong. It feels good to let myself go. When he realizes he can’t pull away his breath hitches. He is standing perfectly still, his eyes wide. 

I use his trapped arm to pull him backward to the bed and push him to the middle. As soon as he is free, he scrambles to escape. I grab his ankle and pull him back, then catch his wrists, and hold them in one hand, above his head. He is still holding the little bell tightly. My height is an advantage, I am straddling him, holding my weight against his imprisoned wrists. I use my free hand to gently stroke his face. “Julian”, he whispers. I move my hand into his hair and use to to pull his head back exposing his neck. I nibble my way from his ear to his shoulder, then bite down hard enough to illicit a moan. His voice is growing husky. He pulls occasionally, trying to free himself. His breath is becoming shallow and fast. The large flat scales of his ridges are flushed dark, making the pattern stand out in the dim light. 

I release his hair, and snake my hand down his chest, letting my nails drag against the scales. When I reach the crest above his ajan, I rub and pinch the edges, until he begins to gasp and whisper a quiet plea, “Please, Julian, please”. I run a finger gently along the edge of the wet slit and he bucks his hips. I push inside slowly. The tissue inside is silky soft and slippery with his lubrication. I find the tip of his cock, and let my finger caress the head. The position is awkward. I have to stretch to reach his wrists. He is mumbling now, words in Standard are mixed in with Cardassian phrases. 

Every time he squirms the peaks and furrows of his ridges rub against my erection. I am at risk of coming across his stomach if we stay like this. I run my cock through the wetness between his legs, then gently push against the opening. He softly repeats diTh, diTh, tuVur, the sounds are sibilant and melodic, it sends shivers across my skin. He has not yet everted, and I push against him, then, slowly slide beside his sheathed penis. His phallic ridges glide across my cock. The friction is exquisite. I slide slowly in and out, inch by inch, keeping a steady pace. He tries to raise his hips, to quicken each stroke but I slow down even further, eliciting a frustrated cry of “please...” I gently stroke and pet the dark swollen ridges at his chest and the pretty crest in the center. I want this moment to last. Garak, pliant and writhing, under me. The intense pleasure of feeling him against me, enveloping me, so completely. The feeling is too much, but I still want more. 

He begins to moan and hiss. It is a distinctly Cardassian sound. He needs more stimulation to reach orgasm. I take pity, and push into him harder. He gasps. I cover his mouth with my hand, and he tries to pull his head away. I increase my pace until the well made bed, shakes with each thrust. He is pleading and whimpering under my palm. I feel his muscles begin to tense. His cock is pushing against me, trying unsuccessfully to evert. I pull out and he slips free from his sheath. I change the angle slightly, so I can penetrate him deeper. His cock is trapped between us as I fuck him. I have been on the edge of an orgasm for too long, I could not stop it now if I tried. I lean forward to run my teeth along his neck ridge, using the hand on his mouth to hold his head to the side. I am pulled over the edge, and into blissful release. 

As I am recovering, I take a hold of Elim’s ridged penis and stroke it with fast, even movements. Being kept inside most of the time, it is extremely sensitive. I am holding it just hard enough to be on the line between pleasurable and painful. He is watching me, his blue eyes wide. He trembles and pulls with his trapped wrists. I am still inside him and I can feel the muscles inside begin to flutter. His orgasm builds slowly and he arches his back off the bed when he comes into my hand in pulses. When it is finished, he lays still, breathing in gasps, with his eyes tightly closed. 

I roll over, to get something to clean us with, but he reaches out and pulls me back to him. I lay back down on his shoulder, with my arm draped across his chest. His heart is still beating fast. I listen to the steady strong rhythm and breath his scent. “I believe I underestimated the extent of your genetic alteration.” “Do you mind it?” “You are, as always, full of surprises.” He pulls his arms around me and turns his head to kiss my forehead. Our mess is cooling and getting sticky, but we lay for a little longer. 

* * *

After we have showered, and indulged in a bit of snuggling on the couch, Garak suggests we might clear out a few boxes. We open them together, he listens as I tell him the origin of trinkets and mementos. He finds a few of my childhood photos, and pokes fun of my somewhat embarrassing teenage fashion sense. I like having him here, in my space.

“Garak, maybe you should bring a toothbrush over.” “A toothbrush? I’m afraid Cardassian dental care is a bit different from Terran, we don’t use brushes to clean our teeth.” He is being obtuse. “I know, I just meant it would be convenient if you brought a few things over. A change of clothes, some toiletries...” “convenient?” “I don’t know exactly how it is done on Cardassia, but on earth that is... a step. It would indicate a relationship is more serious.” I am starting to ramble. Thankfully he steps in “Julian, are you saying you would like to enter into courtship with me?” Wait, Is that what I am saying? 

I imagine coming home to him every day. We could argue over my clothing and his fish juice. It feels right. I feel the most fully myself when I am with him. “Yes, if you are willing. I know things are uncertain right now, with the war, but we could take it slowly.” “I am not a good match for you, Doctor. I have no family, no rank, nothing to offer” he pauses for several seconds “but if you are serious, I would be honored.” I pull him into a kiss, then touch my forehead to his, in the gesture he seems to enjoy. 

* * *

The following day, after an exhausting and somewhat difficult reinstatement; questions I am not sure how to answer; an extremely awkward conversation with Captain Sisco, about my new relationship status; and finally, a frustrating return to a disorganized medical bay; I arrive at my quarters. It is quiet, Elim has been translating documents for Starfleet, and won’t be able to meet me for dinner. I wander in to take a shower and there next to my red toothbrush, is a newly replicated blue one.

Contrary to what most people think, I am not actually naive enough to think this will be easy. There is still a war, closing in on the station, battle by battle. The future is painfully uncertain. Elim is difficult at the best of times. I am still a mess, but I think thats okay. 

**Author's Note:**

> Maybe if they are literally imprisoned together they will communicate.


End file.
